


Divided We Fall

by celli



Category: Profiler
Genre: Gen, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-25
Updated: 2002-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celli/pseuds/celli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because it's not enough that Sam's past follows them everywhere...John's has to get involved too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Completed sometime during second/third season. References to violence and sexual assault.

PROLOGUE

 _Boston, Massachusetts_

Twenty Years Ago

"Mom, can we get ice cream next? Can we, can we?"

"Johnny..." Maureen Grant O'Doyle smiled indulgently at her youngest son. "You know better than to beg."

"I know, I know. Grants don't beg," he said with a seven-year-old's pride in a learned phrase. "But I reeeeally want some rainbow sherbet."

She tried to look stern, but it was nearly impossible. She slipped her hand from his to ruffle his black curls. "I suppose...but only because you're so adorable."

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" He jumped around the sidewalk, pumping his fist the way he'd seen his brothers do after the Celtics won.

She had to laugh out loud. He always made her happy, this child of her heart. Her older sons were carbon copies of their father, but Johnny's blue eyes were as delightful and carefree as any of the Grants she'd grown up with. Her dearest hope was that he would always be this good and this happy--and her greatest fear was that his father would get to him first.

The thought dimmed her pleasure somewhat, and Johnny noticed the change in her face.

"Mooom! Be happy! Ice cream!" He grabbed her hand and pulled her along.

"Absolutely. Ice cream." She wouldn't think about it today, not with her son at her side and all of Boston theirs to see. She'd leave the worries, and the fears, and the desperate plan that had just begun to occur to her, for another time when it wouldn't make Johnny as unhappy as she was.

* * *

A few streets over, in a room above a bar, another O'Doyle was being discussed.

"He'll put up the money."

"No he won't. If he gets caught funding us--"

"Please. The old man's too smart for that. He's going to set up a company for one of his kids, and funnel the money that way."

"I don't like it. It's dirty money."

"And over here, so is the Army. So is Sinn Fein. It's money, that's all that matters. And with this setup, he can give us the money for years to come."

"If you say so. For the good of the Republic."

"The Republic."

* * *

 _VCTF Headquarters, Atlanta, Georgia_

Now

"Morning, John."

"Sam!" John Grant looked up with a pleased smile. "Nice to see you. How are things today?"

"Oh, the same, I imagine." She slid into the chair next to his and flashed him a brief smile. "Murder, mayhem..."

"Yep. The usual." He grinned. "Gotta love it."

She rolled her eyes at him.

"Morning, people." Bailey dropped into his chair at the head of the table and started passing out folders. Nathan and George broke off their own morning conversation and turned towards him. "We have a bombing in Boston."

John winced.

"Don't do that," Nathan said. "I hate it when you do that."

"John? What's wrong?" Sam asked. "Nothing." He shrugged. "I don't like bombs, and I don't like Boston."

Nathan--who knew why he avoided Boston--looked at him sympathetically. Sam cast him an annoyed glance. "If this is about Coop--"

"So, Bailey, what's the story?" John studiously avoided looking at anyone else.

Bailey frowned at him for a moment, then flipped his folder open.

"Two days ago, a South Side Boston bar called The Emerald Pub received a bomb threat. They evacuated the customers, but one of the waitresses went back in to make sure everyone was out."

He gestured to George, who punched in a computer command. The back half of a building appeared on the screen--only the back half, because the front had been blown away.

"She was killed instantly," Bailey finished bleakly.

John mumbled something under his breath. It might have been a prayer; it might have been a curse.

Bailey continued. "Then yesterday, a prominent bank in the same part of town received a threat. They got the bomb squad there and the civilians out..."

Another picture. Another bombed-out building.

"This bomb went off a half-hour before the caller said it would. If not for the quick thinking of one of the technicians, it would have killed all four team members."

"But the physical damage was done," Sam said.

George whistled as he looked at the figures. "Close to seven million!--why do they make buildings that cost that much, anyway?--plus the actual loss of business." He looked up with a grin. "Would you want to bank there?"

Sam spoke up in the abstracted tone that meant she was building a theory. "Same kinds of bombs?'

"Yes."

"Same part of town...both preceded by a threat..." She looked up. "What else do they have in common?"

"Details on the threats are coming in now. Unfortunately, the person who took the call in the bar incident was the waitress who died, so we only have her call to 911." Bailey looked over at George. "I need information on both businesses--owners, customers, you know the drill."

"On it."

"John, you and Nathan go to Boston--"

"Uh, Bailey?" John's voice was hesitant. "I don't really think--"

Nathan broke in. "That is, uh, maybe I should take Sam. She should get a look at these scenes. And John's been on the road a lot lately--he needs a break."

No one missed the grateful look John shot his partner.

"That'll do," Bailey said slowly. "For the moment. That's all, folks." He turned to Sam as the rest of them left the table.

* * *

When Bailey returned to his office a few minutes later, John was waiting for him there.

"I knew you'd want to see me," he said at Bailey's questioning look. "Thought we could just get this over with."

Bailey sat down and just looked at John for a moment.

"Have I told you how proud I am of you?" he said finally.

John was completely nonplussed. "Excuse me?"

Bailey grinned. "You're a good agent, John. And you were a good cop before that."

John grimaced. "But..."

"But." Bailey repeated. He leaned forward, catching and holding John's eyes. "But you're not going to get any better if you keep running from your past like this."

"I am not running," John retorted automatically. It was the same thing he'd said over a year ago, when Bailey had interviewed him for the VCTF position and reported the results of his background check. "Just because I don't want to go back--"

"Just because you can't go back," Bailey corrected gently. "I'm letting you get away with it once, but that's it. We need you on this team, John. I told you that when I was in the hospital." A shadow crossed Bailey's face as the memory of his own recent past dug in. "We need you," he repeated. "Do you understand?"

John looked away. "Yes," he said quietly.

* * *

Somewhere nearby--but not too near--John's past was also the subject. Jack's computer screen was displaying a birth certificate for John Grant O'Doyle and a marriage license for Maureen Grant and Patrick O'Doyle.

"So, you have family in Boston?" Jack murmured to himself. "Interesting."

He switched screens, and the VCTF current case file popped up.

"Connections...links. I love links." He laughed softly, harshly. "Especially weak ones."

* * *

 _Emerald Pub, Boston_

Sam and Nathan's car--borrowed from the local Bureau--pulled up in front of the remains of the Emerald Pub the next morning. The smoke was long gone, of course, but the memory of its smell still lingered outside the building. Pictures in Sam's shoulder bag showed a handsome old pub, one that would have looked just as worn and warm in Dublin or a Midwestern city.

Sam walked up to the yellow tape marking it off and looked up into the building. "Is it structurally safe?"

"No. We'll have to go by crime scene pictures, mostly." Nathan handed her a file folder and a tape. "Here's the 911 call, too."

"Great." She dropped it into her pocket. Then she turned back to the building, tilting her head as she studied the rubble.

"What are you looking for?"

"The blast pattern of the bomb. I think that's what Coop called it." She pointed. "See there? It stops twenty yards from each of the next buildings. That's fairly precise for a bomb, don't you think?"

Nathan nodded. "And in this case, they were given enough warning..."

"Warning. Maybe that's what this was, a warning. Enough damage to get someone's attention."

Both agents turned as a truck pulled up and a large, burly man jumped out. "You the FBI people?" he shouted as he approached them.

"Yes. I'm Special Agent Sam--"

"What?" he yelled again, this time from right in front of them.

The gray beard and bushy brows seemed to almost amplify his words. A megaphone would have been wasted on him. Sam and Nathan exchanged a look. "I'm Samantha Waters," she repeated, more loudly, "and this is Nathan--"

"Yeah, whatever. You're Feds." He took another look at Sam. "Pretty Fed, though," he added.

"Thanks, I'm flattered," Nathan muttered. Sam fought a grin.

The man held out his hand. "Seamus Kelly Patrick O'Riley at your service." He held out a massive hand, and engulfed Sam's in it. "Owner--or former owner, I suppose--of the Emerald Pub. Doesn't seem like a very grand title now, does it?"

Sam shook her head helplessly. "I'm sure it was beautiful..." she began.

"Beautiful? A place of mine?" He gave a loud crack of laughter. "I should hope not. But it was mine, and I loved it. Didn't have bomb insurance on it now, though, did I?"

Sam took a deep breath and jumped in. "Do you have any idea who would do this, sir?"

"Well, now, normally when an Irishman is bombed, it's the Troubles causing it. But as we're in Boston and not in Ireland, what would be the point of bombing an American Irishman who's never even set foot in his homeland?"

"I--I'm sure I don't know..." Sam stuttered.

Nathan took pity on her. "Can you think of anyone else that might have wanted to do this? Any enemies? Any outstanding bills?"

"Well now, the cable TV people are threatenin' to come take their box back, but as I'm fond of sayin' lately, if you can find it, it's yours. Wouldn't that be right?"

Nate shot Sam a look that said clearly, I give up. "Ah...thank you, sir," he said finally. "Oh--is your hearing damage from the blast?"

"What hearin' damage? I'll not be havin' any less than perfect hearin', would I? It's just the rest of the world that mumbles on occasion."

Sam very politely waited until he was back in his truck and halfway down the block before giving into paroxysms of laughter.

* * *

Their visit with the bank manager, while not nearly as amusing, produced a few more definite answers. The bank showed a similar blast pattern, with nearby buildings left unscathed. The manager gave Sam copies of a number of letters from angry customers--fortunately, his office was behind the blast site--and the address of the employee who had taken the bomb threat. He also dug out a copy of the bank's prospectus for more background.

Sam thanked him politely, then joined Nathan back on the street. "Pretty boring," she reported with a grin.

"Darn," he replied. "Anything useful?"

"Not really...we'll check out these complaint letters, but if any of them had been too threatening, I think the bank would have contacted the police beforehand. Let's interview the receptionist and head back."

* * *

On the drive to the receptionist's house, Nathan outlined the case details so far while Sam listened, flipping idly through the prospectus.

"Not much to go on," he said finally.

"No, but something here has to fit. The incidents are too close, in location, in appearance, in time, to not be related. We'll just--hm." She stopped on one page for a moment.

"What is it?"

"Another coincidence. I think. Maybe." She chewed on her bottom lip. "I don't know..."

"What?"

"Oh, sorry." She turned the page so that Nathan could see the pictures of the board of directors. "There's a little blurb in here about the board of directors being entirely Irish-American."

"Like O'Riley."

"Yes. It's not uncommon in Boston, but still..." She trailed off at the sound of approaching sirens. "What's that?"

"Fire trucks, coming our way." Nathan pulled over until the procession of fire truck, ambulance, and police cars had passed. "Looks fairly big."

Sam grimaced. "It also look like they're stopping on the next block. Isn't that where we're headed?"

Nathan checked his notes. "Yes. Damn."

"Let's check it out."

When they reached the end of the block, a uniformed officer was already waving traffic on. "I'm sorry, sir," he said when Nathan pulled up. "You'll have to go around. There's been an accident."

"What kind?" The officer hesitated. Nate flashed his FBI badge. "Come on..."

"All right." The officer pointed at a nearby house. "There was an explosion in the kitchen. The next-door neighbor phoned it in. They're bringing out the lady who lived there now, but..."

But the body on the stretcher was already covered in a sheet.

Sam's eyes were wide. "Nathan, is this--"

"This is." He turned to the cop. "I need to see whoever's in charge of this investigation now. This may not be an accident."

"What else would it be?" The cop didn't budge.

"Murder. Serial murder," Sam said flatly.

* * *

 _Atlanta_

"The cops just assumed it was an accident, because it originated in the kitchen," Nathan finished. "But once they checked, they found fragments of a smaller bomb, same design, inside the stove."

"And the receptionist was dead?" John asked sharply. Nathan nodded.

"Shirley Bartron, age 33," George broke in. "I have pictures...do you really want to see them?"

"Not really," Sam said. "We know how she died." She was avoiding pictures a little more lately, especially of women. No one who had seen what Jack did to her questioned it.

"I'm pulling up information on the owners of the other businesses, too. And the waitress who died. I should have it for you by morning."

"Well, then, I'm going to go home and dream about this, I think." She sighed. "Back to the trenches tomorrow."

She got up amid a chorus of good-nights from the rest of the team. As she passed by John's chair, she tugged at his sleeve. "C'mon."

"What?"

"Come on." She urged him over to his desk. "Get your stuff. I'm giving you a ride home."

Everyone else was furtively watching them; John noticed and held his tongue until they were in the parking garage. "Okay, what's the deal?"

"The deal is, you may not want to tell me about it, but I know you're upset. And I'd say from the look in your eyes that you didn't sleep last night. Am I right?"

John thought of the hours he'd spent staring at the ceiling, and the nightmares that had followed. "I slept a little."

Sam gave a very un-Sam-like snort. "Yeah, right." She stopped and faced him. "I know what it's like to have secrets in your past, John," she said softly. "I won't push. But I will do my best to support you. It's a mommy thing," she added with a smile. John managed a faint smile in return.

"Okay. Thanks."

She waited until he was in the truck before saying, "Oh, and did I mention I'm feeding you, too?"

"Sam!"

* * *

 _Witness 1: Pam Crawford. Waitress. 26. No criminal record; high school education; single, no children..._

"Not much there. Moving on..."

 _Witness 2: Shirley Bartron. Receptionist. 33. No criminal record; Associates degree in Office Management; married, no children..._

"Not her either."

 _Owner 1: Seamus Kelly Patrick O'Riley..._

"Now here's an interesting idea..."

* * *

The team gathered the next morning, looking over George's reports on each bombing.

"What have we got, George?"

"Let's start at the beginning of the file. Witness 1: Charlene Crawford. Waitress, 26..."

It took them only a few minutes to eliminate both witnesses as anything but victims of opportunity.

"The bomb at the third crime scene was hasty, not quite as precise as the others, even though it was well hidden," Sam said. "It's possible that Charlene was killed merely to prevent her from identifying the caller. There's no other reason I can see."

"If Pam hadn't been killed at the scene in the first blast, she probably would have died later," Nathan said. "Which shoots to hell our theory of a bomber who doesn't want to kill."

"It's a contradiction," Sam said. She shook her head. "I don't know what he wants yet."

"He?" John said. "Are you sure?"

"Why?"

"Well, I've just been thinking about what you said. About the owners of both businesses being Irishmen..."

"Being one yourself," Nathan added with a smile.

"But of course," John added in a broad accent. "Anyway...there have been rumors for years about IRA activity in Boston. Front men working through Sinn Fein, and other Catholic groups."

"But why would they bomb one of their own?" Sam asked. "We're talking about Catholic owners, here, aren't we?"

George flipped through a couple of screens on his file. "Um...yes, both Catholics." He looked expectantly at John. "So...?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. It's just something...never mind."

"Let's keep it in mind," Sam said, "but I want to concentrate on the idea of a serial bomber myself. George, can you get me any reports on similar crimes in other regions?"

"I sure can."

"Good." She started gathering her things together. "You might want to also look at smaller incidences in the area. Maybe he's just been working up to this.

Bailey added, "John, why don't you check on any IRA connections in the neighborhood? It's still a viable--"

"No. If Sam doesn't think--"

"I just said it wasn't my first--"

"Forget it, Sam. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong. Let's just let it drop, okay?"

Sam raised an eyebrow at his tone. "Fine." She stalked off.

John groaned, then grabbed his own things and took off in the other direction.

"I'll do it," Nathan said when John had left. "He's a boneheaded idiot, but he just might be right about this."

* * *

The next morning, John was at his desk far earlier than any other VCTF member. Before him on the desk was a legal pad with a list of notes:

 _check bank board/pub connections_

common IRA hangouts

newspaper articles

  
And then, underlined twice:

 _O'DOYLE_

"Damn!" he said finally, flipping the pad over and slamming his hand down on top of it. "I can't do this. I can't. Even for Sam..."

The computer beeped, startling him out of his thoughts. He looked up and automatically hit the "new mail" icon on the screen.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To: Agent Grant <jgrant@vctf.fbi.gov>

From: Agent Trades <jtrades@vctf.fbi.gov>

Subject: Patrick O'Doyle

Agent Grant,

Nice to have you on the team again. We missed you for a while there.

I have some information you may want on a possible link in the Boston

case: it connects a prominent Boston businessman, Patrick O'Doyle, and

his youngest son to the crimes. I was going to give the info to Agent

Waters, but I thought you'd be able to do more with it. I'll give you

a call later this week and we'll discuss it.

JOT

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

His mind went completely blank. John could do nothing but stare at the screen. Then he fumbled for the phone next to him.

"What? What is it?" came a sleepy voice.

"George, you need to get into the office now."

"John? For Pete's sake, it's 6:30 in the blessed morning. Wait till I come in at a reasonable--"

"No." The desperation in John's voice was apparent even to him. "You have to come. You have to help me."

There was a brief silence. "I'm on my way."

John hung up. He paused, briefly, picked up the phone again, and set it down. A moment later it crashed against the opposite wall.

* * *

When George walked in the door, trying unsuccessfully to tuck his shirt in, John was still in front of his desk with the email on his screen. His hands were clenched into fists in his lap.

"John?"

John just motioned to the screen. George read it carefully, then one more time.

"I don't get it. I mean, it's obviously from Jack, but who--"

"I'll explain the entire thing when the rest of the team gets here. But I need you to trace this. I need to know where it came from."

George started to protest that even tracing Jack didn't need to be done this early, but something in John's face stopped him. "All right. All right. I'll get started. You wait."

* * *

The rest of the team filed in, barely awake, sloppily dressed, and predisposed to yell at John. But no one did after seeing the look on his face.

When they were all gathered around the table, John nodded at George, who displayed the email message for them.

"It's definitely from Jack, and as far as I can tell, he just put our domain name over his. But I'm not having any luck figuring out what domain it actually is."

"I don't understand," Sam said. "Why would he send it to John? And who is Patrick O'Doyle?"

Nathan and Bailey looked at each other, then at John. "Do you want me--" Nathan began.

"No," John said. "I can do it."

He stood up and took a few steps toward the main screen. "There's no easy way to say this...Patrick O'Doyle is one of the biggest mob figures in Boston. He is also my father."

Sam's eyes went wide.

"I was born Jonathan Grant O'Doyle. But I haven't used that name since my eighth birthday."

 _Good morning, Johnny! Shh. We have to be quiet. Your birthday present is outside, in the car. But we have to be very quiet. Quiet, okay, sweetie?_

John wandered around the table, avoiding everyone's eyes.

"O'Doyle is powerful. He is rumored to own politicians at every--and I mean every--level of government. He also owns a few other people. But not me. And not my mother." He stopped by Sam's chair. His voice, which had been getting quieter and quieter, became almost inaudible. "That's why he killed her."

Sam reached up to him. "John..." She took one of his hands in hers. He held on tightly for a moment. Then he took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and looked back at the other team members.

"He is also supposed to have connections to the Irish Republican Army--or at least that's the rumor that started around the time I...left Boston. So it's possible that he is involved. If Jack's not just trying to discredit me."

"Probably a little of both," Sam said. The brisk tone of her voice belied the shine of tears in her eyes. "We should trace both possibilities."

"You're right, Bailey said. "Nathan, how you doing on those IRA connections?"

John nearly smiled. "Did it without me, huh, partner?"

"Damn right. Like I need you around." Nathan smiled at him, rather foolishly.

"Let's keep following these leads," Bailey said, "and add Patrick O'Doyle's name to it."

"And my brother's names," John said suddenly. "Conan and Dev."

"Brothers, huh?" George said. "Must be tough." John just shrugged.


	2. Untitled Normal Page

_Boston_

"I don't want to do this," Sam said as the plane touched down. It was the only comment she'd made since they boarded the plane, but it said everything.

"I know," Bailey replied. "I wish we had a choice."

"This must be killing John."

"Worse things could happen," Bailey said laconically, and left it there.

* * *

Patrick O'Doyle and his sons lived, as might be expected, in a huge mansion in the best Irish part of Boston. A uniformed maid admitted them, ushered them to a sitting room, and left them with refreshments and silence.

"Whoa," Sam said finally.

"At least it wasn't a butler," Bailey said mildly.

After what was probably a carefully calculated wait, the door opened again to admit Mr. O'Doyle. Both Sam and Bailey rose to their feet to greet him.

"Hello, Mr. O'Doyle," Bailey said. "I'm Special Agent Bailey Malone, and this is Sam Waters."

"Hello." He offered his hand to Bailey, then to Sam.

Sam had to steel herself before she looked fully at John's father. She was relieved to find that they looked very little alike. Patrick O'Doyle had the same black hair and strong build, but his eyes were brown and his face didn't have the chiseled roughness of John's. He smiled perfunctorily at her, and she relaxed even more. There was nothing in that cold look to remind her of her friend.

O'Doyle gestured them to their chairs and stood before them, frowning. "All right. What's wrong?"

Sam cast a quick look at Bailey, whose face was completely neutral. "Mr. O'Doyle, we understand that you had a substantial business relationship with the Community First Bank of Boston," he said.

"True. They've been one of my first choices for loans in the last few years; I even sat on their board of directors for a while, a decade or so back." His voice was pleasant but not friendly, giving nothing away.

"And one of those loans was to buy the land which the Emerald Pub stands--or rather, did stand--on?"

"Also true. I own most of that street, in fact." Sam let her gaze wander around the room. There were a few framed pictures on the walls, but most of them were of homes or fields; nothing personal. The one painting in the room was a posed portrait of Patrick and two men in their thirties.

"You must, of course, be aware that both buildings were destroyed by bombs this week."

"Yes, I had heard that. My insurance company is looking into it."

Bailey raised an eyebrow. "You had insurance on the properties?"

"No, I mean my insurance company. The one that I own. Both owners insured with them."

"I see. Mr. O'Doyle, is there any reason that you might be targeted for an attack like this?"

"No more than any other businessman in Boston. Besides," he added with a quick shrug, "I wasn't."

"There have been rumors among the intelligence community," Bailey lied, "that the IRA may have been either the aggressor or the victim in this case."

O'Doyle merely lifted an eyebrow.

Sam was still looking at the painting. "Those must be your sons," she interrupted with a smile. "They look exactly like you."

The comment almost surprised a real smile out of Patrick. "That's for sure," he said with pride. "My spitting images. In every way."

"No other children?" she asked.

His face closed down once more. "Thank you for stopping by." He turned and strode from the room.

Sam blinked. "Well."

"Aren't you sorry you asked?" Bailey winked at her.

* * *

 _Atlanta_

"As much as I hate to admit it, Jack's right," Sam told the team. "O'Doyle is the key to this. I don't know if he instigated the attacks or if he's the victim of them, but..."

"What was he like when you talked to him?" John asked.

Sam thought for a moment before giving in to complete honestly. "Cold. Elusive. He's hiding something, and he doesn't trust us."

"Let me guess. The only time you got a real reaction out of him was when you mentioned Conan and Dev, right?" John was obviously trying hard to act as though this were any case, but the resentment was still there.

Sam covered his hand with hers under the table. "Actually, no. I asked him if he had any more children, and I'd swear an actual emotion crossed his face."

"Anger?"

"No," Bailey said. "Guilt."

No one voiced the notion that Bailey might just be projecting. The thought of Frances, still fugitive and alone, was too painful for everyone.

"Well," George said, "this man has some of the most intricate paper trails I've ever seen. I'm still tracking down some of them. I can't even start with the companies his sons technically own until I've got a handle on the old man's holdings."

Nathan nodded. "Whatever those trails are, they probably run right into some of the stuff I've been trying to find. The IRA buries itself deep in America, and most of my leads go nowhere fast."

"You know what we need?" John said suddenly. Everyone looked at him. "A terrorism expert."

Sam looked at him warily.

"And it wouldn't hurt if he were a bomb expert, too."

She shook her head. "No. John, no. Forget it."

"Why not?" He intercepted her look. "This case is hard enough on me...I probably won't even notice Bomb Boy hanging around."

"Yeah, right." George said. "And after that, we can give you a nice little paper cut and pour lemon juice on it. We can handle this, John. This is a personal matter."

"Actually, it's a case," John said pointedly.

Nathan shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Jack's involved, your...O'Doyle is connected. Let's leave well enough alone."

John looked at Bailey for support, but their leader just shrugged. "Don't look at me," he said. "I know better than to ignore my team."

John threw up his hands. "Fine. Do whatever you want." He pushed himself away from the table.

"And where are you going?" Bailey asked.

"To work a few connections. Later." And before they could ask him who the connections were, he was gone.

* * *

Ring...

"O'Doyle."

"Mr. O'Doyle? This is Jack--"

"No it's not. Why is this happening?"

"Excuse me?"

"Jacky's dead. He's been dead for years. None of this has anything to do with him. You people can just leave us alone, or--or I'll sue you for every federal penny you've got!"

"Sir?"

Click.

A stunned silence, then laughter. "Samantha dear, you're closer to the truth than you know. As always."

* * *

 _Federal Penitentiary, Boston_

"You ready?" John asked Sam as they met at the gates.

"I suppose."

He laughed at the look on her face. "Didn't like the strip-search much, did you?"

"That was livable. I just didn't like the liability form I had to sign. Basically, if they try to rob me, rape me, or wring my neck, nobody cares."

He let out a shout of laughter. "Poetically put, Sam."

They waited for the gates to open, then followed a guard through to the maximum security visiting room. A young man with green eyes and blond hair was waiting there. He barely looked old enough to be out of high school, but there were extra guards in the room.

"Rory O'Connor?" Sam asked.

"And who else but the dangerous criminal named O'Connor would they put in bracelets like this?" He held up his manacled hands. "I'm sure you'll forgive me for not shakin' hands with you, ma'am."

Only his choice of words occasionally betrayed his Irish heritage; his voice was curiously free of accent, as though whatever voice he'd been born with had been wiped away. He stood when Sam entered the room, and remained standing until she seated herself.

"A friend said you wanted to talk to me," he said easily.

Sam cast a look at John. He'd never said exactly how he found O'Connor. "A friend of yours?" she asked quietly.

"I'll never tell."

"Mm-hm." She turned back. "Mr. O'Connor--"

"Please, when did my father enter the room?" He laughed. Sam felt John stiffen next to her. "Call me Rory, or I'll just have to go back to my room and suffer."

She couldn't help but smile. "Okay, Rory."

John softened a little as well. "Rory, your friend that talked to my friend--he said you were an expert on the Troubles."

"He did, did he? And before my appeal's complete, even. Ah well..." Rory shrugged. "I will tell you that they're familiar to me."

"And are they familiar to anyone else living in Boston?"

"Most likely...some names I can tell you, some I can't. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"And wouldn't I know that before I came in, if I were any cop at all?" John flashed a grin.

Rory replied in kind. "All right, then...give me your names."

"Seamus O'Riley, owner of the Emerald Pub."

"Good bar...faithful man. No."

John lifted a brow at the word "faithful," but continued smoothly. "The owners of the Community First Bank of Boston." Rory shrugged.

"Don't know them. Never been there."

John took a deep breath, started to speak, then stopped.

Sam laid a hand on his shoulder. "The O'Doyles," she said quietly.

Rory looked sharply at her, then at John. "I'll be damned."

"What?" John asked. "What do you know?"

The Irishman looked back at the guards, then leaned forward and pitched his voice lower. "Nothing worth dying for, except this: look under a dead man's name and you'll find your answers." He pulled himself to his feet; the guards immediately moved forward. "It was a pleasure meetin' you, ma'am," he said to Sam. "Since I'll most likely not see you again, have a good life." He looked at John. "Be careful," he said simply. Then he was gone.

* * *

Sam waited until they were back outside the gates before turning to John. "What did he mean?"

"I don't know yet," John said slowly. "Do you have any idea?"

"No. But I have a feeling..."

"What?"

She looked back at the prison. "Danger," she said simply.

* * *

Neither of them were completely surprised to discover the next day that a bomb had gone off in the maximum-security wing of the federal penitentiary, leaving one prisoner dead--an Irish--American waiting for an appeal on a terrorism case. The media immediately blamed the IRA.

* * *

 _Atlanta_

"Three dead, all witnesses, all people--if the O'Doyles are involved--who might have linked one of them to the bombings," George said.

Nathan spoke up. "Or, if the O'Doyles are victims, people who might have helped us track the killers through them."

Sam was looking at a print-out of the damages. "Both property bombings hurt the family, but not badly. We're missing something."

"I'm not surprised," John shot back. "Everyone who could supply a link is dead or missing."

None of the O'Doyles would return calls or see the agents. The bank manager and employees had had amazing memory losses. Seamus O'Riley was nowhere to be found. And somewhere out there was a bomber, waiting to strike again, and Jack, with too much information to ignore and knowledge about John that couldn't be denied.

"There's only one thing to do," John said grimly.

Sam's head shot up at his tone. "No. John, no. It's too risky."

"I'll carry my gun," he said wryly.

"You know that's not what I mean."

"I'll go with you, man," Nathan said. Sam glared at him. "Hey! He was the one that suggested it!"

"You don't have to encourage him."

John ruffled Sam's hair, then dodged her return slap. "That's awfully nice of you, Sam..." His teasing manner faded, and he looked her straight in the eye. "But it's the only thing left. My...father can lead us to the truth about the bombings whether he's behind them or not, and I'm the only one with a chance of finding out."

"Then Sam and Nathan will go with you," Bailey said abruptly. Everyone turned to look at him. He shrugged. "It would be overkill if I went."

"So instead of taking my boss, my lawyer, and my shrink, I'm just taking my lawyer and my shrink," John said.

"Pretty much."

John rolled his eyes. "Okay. Let's do this."

* * *

 _Boston_

"I'm not supposed to let you in." The maid stood, firm but terrified, in the doorway.

John smiled at her. "Them you're not supposed to let in. Me, it's okay."

"What? You have an extra badge or something?"

"No." He handed her a single sheet of paper. "I have this." She looked at it, turned white, and then fled into the house.

John waited a moment, then followed; Sam and Nathan followed him. They were halfway down the long entrance hall when they heard footsteps thundering down the stairs. Patrick O'Doyle rushed in, followed by the two men Sam had seen in the painting. "What the bloody hell--" he began. Then he saw John and pulled up short. The other two did the same.

John looked at his brothers. "Conan. Dev," he said shortly. Then, after a long pause, "...Dad."

The room went deathly still. Sam reached for John's arm instinctively, but pulled back. Then Patrick stepped forward. "I told you before, quit lying to me!" he thundered. He swung at John's head.

In a moment, he was lying on the floor. "Boy, that felt good," John said with a wink at Sam. He turned to the other two O'Doyles. "Either of you care to try? I've gotten a little big since you used to gang up on the Third Musketeer."

"Oh, God," the oldest--Conan, Sam guessed--said hoarsely. "Jack, why aren't you dead? Dad said--"

John flashed a quick smile with no humor. "Rumors of my death, and all that. I wasn't in the car with Mom."

Dev spoke up. "Then why didn't you come home?"

Patrick finally spoke up from the floor. "Because he was afraid." His voice alerted his sons to his presence, and the two older reached down to help him up. John moved back a step. He reached out a hand for Sam, and she took it. Nathan moved closer to his other side. "He was afraid," Patrick said again, wearily. "His mother told him that I would rather have them dead than away from me, and after she died he thought..."

"Go ahead, tell me it's not true. Tell me you didn't--"

"Don't say it, Jacky." Patrick ran a hand through his hair in a gesture Sam had seen before. "I won't tell you, because you won't believe me. Just don't ask."

John looked at his father for a long moment. "Fine," he said shortly. Sam saw Patrick relax just a little, and Dev took a step towards the agents. John cut him off with a look. "But it's John."

"John?" his brothers said in unison.

"John Grant." He looked Patrick in the eye. "FBI Special Agent. No one's called me Jack in twenty years."

His father nodded. "Is that it? You came to tell me your name?"

"I think that's it for the moment," John said. "Unless you want to tell me the same story about the bombings that you do about Mom."

"Jacky--" A new emotion flashed into his father's eyes. "Get out. If you want to have this conversation again, it will be with my lawyers."

John lifted his chin. "Gladly." He turned and led the other two out.

As they approached the car, Sam moved to slip her arm around John's waist. "I'm proud of you," she said softly.

He sighed. "I'm not."

She looked up at the pain in his face and started to say something else, but they were interrupted by a shout. "Jack! Wait!"

"John," he said through his teeth as he turned around.

It was Dev, the middle brother, running towards them. Over his shoulder Sam could see that the door was closed and the windows were shuttered. No one else seemed to be watching.

"I'm sorry, John," Dev said when he reached them. "I'm sorry. But it's been twenty years and...anyway. I don't claim to know everything Dad does, and I know for sure you wouldn't like most of it...but I don't think he's behind the bombings."

"Why?" Sam asked when John stood silent.

"Because I was there when he heard about them. When Dad doesn't want you to know how he feels about something, he doesn't fake it. He just doesn't show anything. But when he got the call about the second bombing...He's scared. And you know he doesn't scare easily."

John waited several painful moments. Just as Dev started to turn away, he said, "Dev?"

"What?"

"I can't trust you anymore. But I believe you."

Dev raised his chin. "Fine. Ditto."

One corner of John's mouth actually turned up. "All right. So where do I look?"

"I'll put together a list of people that might be suspect and send it to you. You have a fax machine at this job?"

John pulled out a card and handed it to him. Dev studied it.

"So, you live in Atlanta now, little brother? Better weather."

"Yeah, but the best basketball still belongs to the Celtics."

Both brothers smiled then. Sam's heart twisted.

* * *

They were barely out of sight of the house when John stopped the car at a gas station. "Be right back," he said shortly, and headed in.

Sam and Nathan exchanged looks. "Follow him?" Sam asked.

Nathan returned in a minute, shaking his head. "He's throwing up."

"Damn." Sam jumped out of the car and met John at the door.

"John? You okay?"

"No. Would you mind?" He grabbed her and hugged her tight. When Nathan took a step closer, John pulled him in too. He pulled in several short, shallow breaths, and Sam could feel his pulse thudding in his throat.

"Thank you," he said roughly when he let go of both of them. "I don't know how I made it through that."

"You did great, man." Nathan slapped him on the back.

"You did," Sam said. "I don't think I could have."

"Are you kidding?" He grinned down at her. "You inspired me, Sam."

* * *

Atlanta

After all that, the solving of the actual case was rather anticlimactic.

"Hey, guys, listen to this!" George yelled as they walked into the Command Center that afternoon. They all gathered around his computer. He pulled up an audio file.

"This is the recording of the 911 call that Sam gave me." Nathan and Sam exchanged looks. They'd almost forgotten about that tape. "I didn't hear anything the first few times, but after I took out the background noises--and the whole thing is like one big background noise--"

He started fiddling with the file. They could hear it quiet as the various voices and noises in the background were removed. Finally, right at the end--

"Did you hear that?" George asked excitedly.

"Uh, no," John said. "What?"

He replayed it. "Shh!"

After the sound of the operator's voice fading out, there was suddenly a shout from far away--"Get back in there!...more people!"

"Oh, I have to go," they heard the waitress say. "There are more people in there!" And she hung up.

"But everyone was out," Sam said wonderingly.

"Yup. Someone wanted her in there when the bomb went off. Probably because he knew, as soon as she had time, she'd realize that the voice was familiar."

"O'Riley!" Nathan and Sam said together.

"I know that shout," Nathan added with a grin.

"All this and we knew it the whole time?" John asked. "Dammit."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To: Agent Grant <jgrant@vctf.fbi.gov>

From: Agent Trades <jtrades@vctf.fbi.gov>

Subject: You win some...

Agent Grant,

Found the man who hired the killer, did you? Found the killer through them. But only I know why the targets were picked, cause I know O'Riley's not talking.

JOT

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'm gonna kill him."

"No, John. You can't have all the fun."

"But Nathan..."

"Just torture him."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To: trades@compuserve.com

From: Jonathan Grant <jgrant@vctf.fbi.gov>

Subject: Re: You win some...

Wrong yet again, idiot.

It didn't take long at all to figure out that I was the "dead man" Rory referred to (before he became the real thing). And it took George much less time than you to get into the computers at Jack O'Doyle Enterprises and find exactly which IRA frontman the rest of the family has been funneling money to for twenty years. Seamus O'Riley. Through Community First Bank.

In fact, it took so little time that George was also able to lay a trap for you in the system while he was at it. Welcome back to the real world, buddy. We're after you again.

Grant (Oh, by the way...did I ever tell you that *my* name is Jack too? Isn't it too bad that Sam thinks of me instead of you when she hears that name now?)

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

John looked up from the computer with a smile. "Is that more or less what you had in mind, Sam?"

She beamed at him. "Exactly right. This should take him to the point of no return."

John looked back at his computer. "Don't try to split us up, Jack," he muttered. "You'll only find it turned back on yourself." And he hit Send.

* * *

Somewhere in Atlanta, the sound of someone screaming could be heard...

* * *


End file.
